


Farmand

by pensee



Category: Hannibal (TV) RPF
Genre: Actors please forgive me, Aka Adidas all day, Couldn’t think of a better title, Don’t do this on a real train, Hiding from Mummy and Daddy, Hints of D/s dynamics, I blame you, Implied pissplay, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Mads being Mads, Nervous virginal Hugh, Oral Sex, Posh Hugh, Sex with a stranger, Thank you to everyone who encouraged me to post this, The title is basically my brand, This idea POSSESSED me, Uni aged Hugh, lord forgive me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22655764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee
Summary: Hugh shouldn’t be salivating over thinking himself a four-legged pet—to crawl along on his hands and knees—for a man who’s obviously completely uninterested in him, getting looks from the other passengers as he pointedly does not move to the smoking room to indulge.He places a cigarette in his mouth after he says those devastating words, probably waiting for Hugh to bloody well react and move his stupid trunk someplace else. Anywhere else than the last prime bit of above-the-seat shelves that are currently stuffed to the brim.Could you move your luggage a bit, sweetheart?God, the voice itself, much less the man attached to it, sent shivers up Hugh’s spine.-Oxford-era Hugh, in a pretty little suit (school uniform-esque, of course) with his parents accompanying him on a train back to town, meets rich-but-ironically-wearing-slouchy-beanie-and-torn-jeans Mads, whom he sucks off in the luggage car because Mads called him “sweetheart” when he asked Hugh to move one of his ginormous suitcases, carried home from a family vacation in the countryside.
Relationships: Hugh Dancy/Mads Mikkelsen
Comments: 14
Kudos: 119





	Farmand

**Author's Note:**

> This is not at all a reflection of reality, nor do I wish it to be. This is fictional fun, with no intent to depict the real people whose images are used as characters within. This is not my normal cup of tea, but this plot bunny bit me about two years ago, and I’ve finally gotten up the courage to post it. If you are down for some fictional meet-and-greet sex, then please, come into my parlour. Enjoy.

Honestly, Hugh shouldn’t have gotten all riled up over something so offhanded. The man who’d spoken the words hadn’t even looked up to make eye contact, as if he was talking to a particularly intelligent dog, not a cumbersome boy with an overactive imagination who’s less than half his age.

Hugh shouldn’t be salivating over thinking himself a four-legged pet—to crawl along on his hands and knees—for a man who’s obviously completely uninterested in him, getting looks from the other passengers as he pointedly does not move to the smoking room to indulge.

He places a cigarette in his mouth after he says those devastating words, probably waiting for Hugh to bloody well _react_ and move his stupid trunk someplace else. Anywhere else than the last prime bit of above-the-seat shelves that are currently stuffed to the brim.

 _Could you move your luggage a bit, sweetheart_?

God, the voice itself, much less the man attached to it, sent shivers up Hugh’s spine.

“S-sorry, sir,” he stumbles, yanking at his heavy trunk and by the grace of God managing to balance it on the top of his father’s chair before it tumbles to the floor, spilling his two dress coats and dirty underthings all over the place. He tugs at his own uncomfortably tight shirt collar, thanking small favors his parents hadn’t tried to shove him into a tie as well.

 _So much for moving it_ just a little bit, he sighs to himself, distress sweat tickling as it slides down his neck and at the hollows of his armpits.

His case sits at their feet, jammed in tight despite this being first class seating, the man replacing Hugh’s luggage with his own duffle—torn in places, duct taped in others—and heaving himself into a window seat across the aisle. The last open one in the car, Hugh notes, curiously peering nonchalantly as possible to the rest of the passengers. Each of them is currently absorbed in their own book or personal entertainment, his parents the sole pair glaring at the obtrusive man across the way.

“There are porters to take care of those sort of things. _You_ shouldn’t have to be the one to move your case, dear,” his mother whispers, possibly loud enough for the man to hear, but he doesn’t do anything but continue to smoke, flash of a silver Rolex on his right wrist as his jumper rides up a bit.

At one of the many beginning-of-term parties Hugh had attended, a new boy from Eton had bragged about owning that same watch and five others like it. Ten thousand Euros, it cost.

His parents weren’t impressed by the ratty oversized beanie or scuffed Nike trainers and tracksuit bit, but holy shit, this guy either had serious skills at nicking people on trains, or he was as loaded as the posh prigs Hugh went to school with.

“Oh, either fetch the luggage boy or drag it down there yourself, pet,” his mother says, clearly miffed at the man’s lack of response to her needling, and Hugh grimaces at the order—his trunk is _heavy_. He sees the snack trolley approaching from his only way out, not giving him much room to work with.

“ _Alright_ , Mum,” he says, perhaps a bit too harshly.

“Cheer up, darling, Mummy will order you a nice biscuit, hm?”

His father shoots him a stern glare, but Hugh just drags his things along as mournfully as can be allowed for one attending one of the world’s premiere academic institutions (that, by the bloody way, do not require _uniforms_ anymore, such as the terribly awful suit he’s been squeezed into at the moment).

He’s somehow managed to get around the snack trolley and already halfway through the door to the next car when he realizes that the bloke with the Rolex is behind him, holding the sliding panel open for him so it doesn’t slam down on his trunk.

“Least I can do,” the man says, more of that strange, sibilant voice, and Hugh blushes but turns before it hits full force, mumbles, “Thank you, sir,” all proper and nice like his parents would’ve liked.

The man follows him to the luggage car, still puffing on his cigarette, eyes warm and too familiar as Hugh deposits his case onto a pile of similar trunks. Brushing his hands off, he’s prepared to be done with it before the tall stranger knocks him into the nearest wall and snogs the breath out of him.

He realizes he’s backing up against a mound of bags, unsure of whether his reasoning is because he’s trying to restrain himself from overeagerly moving closer, or if he’s trying to stop himself from clambering away.

“Fancy meeting you here,” the stranger says, and Hugh gasps at the juxtaposition of the otherwise nonchalant words and the no doubt malicious intent behind them.

 _You were just telling yourself not ten minutes ago that you were willing to crawl like a dog for this man, and now you’re embarrassed over a bloody_ kiss, he screams at himself, but is nonetheless a tad reluctant, whimpering when a broad palm reaches for his shoulder, pushes him down.

His knees buckle and he falls gracelessly, though the man doesn’t seem to mind, muttering, “ _God dreng_ ,” like he’s done something noteworthy, and Hugh swallows nervously at what he’s almost at eye-level with if he balances high on his knees.

He can’t think much beyond these sure hands moving him from place to place, coaxing his own fingers to undo the button and flies on the man’s shredded denims (he wonders if it’s fashion or simply from use, like his duffle), coaxing his tongue out to play as a thick index finger is placed in his mouth.

“Cute little thing,” the stranger rumbles, back to English and giving Hugh whiplash with how much he wants to hear the _other words_ again.

“ _Er du fars lille dreng_?”

Hugh sucks, keening around the digit on his tongue, grasping blindly, his eyes closed in pleasure at the steel-hard length beneath his stranger’s black boxers.

“Oh, God,” he sighs, drooling at the girth of the cock in his hand (it must be his hindbrain playing tricks on him, making his hand appear so small against the thick shaft), at the tiniest bit of pre-come gathering at the head, glans drawn away from the foreskin.

“It’s alright, it’s not going to bite you. Go on, baby,” the man coaches, as if Hugh hasn’t done this before (fuck, he has, at least a handful of times for different boys in his dormitory), and he doesn’t know whether it’s insulting or terribly, gut-wrenchingly arousing that this stranger is treating him like he’s inexperienced.

He tries to be sweet, to not nibble, even a bit, but it all dissolves into sloppy kisses against the man’s corona and a lot of too enthusiastic licking, spit going everywhere before Hugh can even really even try to take him down his throat.

The stranger’s cock feels _marvelous_ , and Hugh wants to look up through his lashes, and if he stops licking, all he’ll get is a view of the man’s jumper and his open flies (admittedly, still a perfect view). Though if he does it this way, he can at least see his face at an angle, that awful scraggly beard and shoulder length hair and the slight curl of his lip that means he doesn’t really care if all Hugh is doing is slobbering over his cock like a bitch in heat.

 _He’s so handsome_ , Hugh thinks dreamily, all unaffected angles and a perfect bit of beer gut hanging over the waistband of his pants, which Hugh hadn’t even thought to tuck beneath his balls instead of just pulling it out like the man was getting ready to take a piss.

Hugh squirms at the implication ( _maybe he’ll play with me_ that way _too_ , then: _oh God, let him see me later_ ) and plants a loving, messy kiss on the tip of his stranger’s perfect, meaty cock, feels come burst out of it in a sudden shower of obscene white globs. It occurs to him, peripherally, that while he was mucking about trying to treat this like a romantic encounter and French-kissing every bit of skin he could reach, that the other man had been jerking himself in an uneven rhythm, sure hand entirely more efficient at the task than Hugh’s.

 _But I can practice, I know I can get it right_ , Hugh thinks to himself, embarrassed at how focused he is on the thought, so focused that he doesn’t notice the man is still beating himself off onto his upturned face.

A whole stream of fresh come just misses his lower lip, drips viscously onto his now ruined shirt and dark coat.

 _It shows the stains quite easily_ , he thinks, with a twinge of sadness because his parents must _never_ know about this. He’ll make some excuse about it getting dusty, or something, though he can’t hide the wetness all over his chest, nipples perky pink and barely visible through the thickly starched fabric.

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathes, lapping up some of what’s fallen onto his shirt by dragging his fingers through it, sucking them like a popsicle and trying not to hump the floor with how hard he’s gotten, practically pressing an impression of his own zip into tender flesh.

His stranger pats him on the cheek, _job well done_ , and Hugh nearly squeals at the unexpected sensation of come squirting out of him, drenching his formerly immaculately pressed pants—now wrinkled from kneeling and nasty from his own fluids.

Hearing a zipper, the shuddering movement of the train, a lighter again; it all trickles in clearer and clearer with every moment that passes, as if he’s slowly recovering from witnessing a tragedy.

“Do you have a pen?” his stranger asks, though it is more a command, and Hugh rushes to comply without thinking exactly where in his trunk his diary might be, scattering his used pants and an ugly red jumper over others’ luggage as he hunts for one and a piece of paper.

He guesses he knows how this goes, now. _Please, let me be right_ , he hopes, handing the requested supplies over.

Scritch-scratch, very quick, very neat.

_Farmand_

A 45 country code and a longer string that must be the man’s personal number, and Hugh feels his own greedy hands clench with want.

His stranger must’ve had a kerchief or something, because his jeans are presentable even though he’d come a stream and Hugh hadn’t even thought to clean him up (he bemoans the thought with a quiet, petulant frown). The man hands Hugh the sliver of paper with his number on it, pats him on the head very much like Hugh’s been a good boy and deserves a reward.

“ _Hej_ ,” he says, and a flurry of questions races through Hugh’s mind the instant before it’s too late, and the sliding door to the luggage car shuts. In the wake of his stranger’s departure, a very confused attendant whom Hugh recognizes from boarding, emerges from the next car, nods in greeting, and asks, “Everything alright, sir?”

“Y-yeah,” Hugh lies. “Just fetching the diary. Forgot I left it in here.”

“Ah, very well,” the attendant says, and Hugh can see he’s pocketed quite a few banknotes, tucked hastily beneath the wrist of his white glove.

Had he been absent from the car purposely, in exchange for that note? Or had Hugh’s stranger merely paid him to keep his mouth shut, after the fact?

The possibility that his stranger had been watching him from the platform, or earlier, hoping to make this little rendezvous into a reality, warms Hugh in ways that really should disturb him but don’t. He bites his lip, trying to quell his building excitement and the rather silly giggle that threatens to bubble from his throat.

“I’ll pack this back up,” he says lamely, and the attendant pointedly averts his eyes from the sight of his smallclothes as he shuts the trunk firmly enough to click over the rattle of the train.

**Author's Note:**

> Um, jeg taler ikke dansk. So. I’m terribly sorry, for that, and all of this.


End file.
